


my coloring book, coda

by felicities



Series: coming home [2]
Category: Broadway RPF, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman, Wicked RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 16:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18706276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicities/pseuds/felicities
Summary: Florence Birdwell sees Kristin after the show in Broken Arrow—she has some notes, of course.





	my coloring book, coda

**Author's Note:**

> originally written in 2016.
> 
> apparently all i ever did that year was write about kristin's _coming home_ concert!

2014\. Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.

 

“Kristi Dawn,” Florence announces immediately as she is wheeled into Kristin’s dressing room, her voice firm and inquisitive, its timber almost exactly the same as it had been thirty years ago. “Do I have any business asking who you just sang that song to?”

 

Kristin shuts the door behind her, letting out a sigh. She walks towards her mentor, kneeling in front of her, taking the older woman’s hands in hers. “Oh, Miss Birdwell,” she starts shyly, looking down at them—hers slender and bony, Florence’s veiny and aged. Kristin’s held these hands so many times in college and her early days starting out in show business that she could no longer count exactly how much. Florence has always been there for Kristin, from the very first day she auditioned to get into her beloved OCU, and has taught her so much since, beyond vocal technique.

 

“You know who,” she says, looking up, her eyes glassy. “It’s her. It’s for her. Always been.”

 

“Oh, my darling,” Florence says. Kristin looks down again, a teardrop falling onto the back of her hand. Florence leans in to press her lips to the top of Kristin’s head. “Did you invite her to come here?”

 

“Of course,” she sighs, “but as usual, no reply, no call, no appearance. One of these days I’m gonna have to stop.”

 

“Maybe she can’t bear to face you.”

 

“It hurts either way.”

 

“Am I allowed to critique your performance?”

 

Kristin looks up, mildly surprised at the sudden shift in the conversation and yet completely unfazed. _There_ ’s the Birdwell she knows. “Always.”

 

“Beautiful voice. Incredible technique. But you weren’t being honest enough. Or at all.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Him? He? All those male pronouns? Honey.”

 

“I can’t—people can’t know. I’m not… people don’t _know_ , Miss Birdwell.”

 

“If you are going to sing and dedicate a song to the love of your life, Kristi Dawn, you better goddamn commit to it or don’t do it at all. I will not have any of this, and I’m sure as hell neither will she. And you know what? Neither should you. Sing your _truth_ , Kristi. It’s the least you can do.”

 

With a flourish of her hand, she instructs her aide to turn her wheelchair around and out of the room. “See you on Broadway, my dear. When’s that again?” Florence says halfway out the door.

 

“Early next year,” Kristin says, just before the door closes behind Florence.

 

Kristin stays in her spot, a fond smile on her face, mixed with a look that’s close to something like determination. When has Birdwell ever steered her wrong?


End file.
